A Tame Dog Still Bites
by abhorrent
Summary: John doesn't seem to believe there's any justification in these accusations. He's not a dog, he's a person. So, why does everyone keep making the analogy?


_I'm in a weird mood today. So, I'm trying my hand at actually completing a story I wanted to write. And listening to Leonard Cohen. And I finally caved in and watched Sherlock. Brilliant. Brilliant._

_Set after the pool scene, with the bombs and the plot twists and the evil maniacs. It's after that. And, I think we need some righteous, and offended, John. He's so adorable. And I've wondered why he lets people call him a dog. I would be pissed if that were the case, but he seems to shake it off. I don't believe him.  
_

_This hasn't been brit-picked! I'm an American, thank you, and while I would like to think I have a decent understanding of the British tongue, I'm pretty sure I don't. So, don't string me up if this is too "American" for you. I can only apologize and beg for forgiveness._

* * *

"...but then, people do get so sentimental about their _pets_."

He hadn't even begun to register that comment in his thoughts before he found himself blurting it out loud. He grimaced, face turning a righteous shade of red, and he brought his gaze up to meet his companion. Said companion had been balls-deep in some sort of experiment that had left him glued to a microscope for the past six hours. But, now, it would seem that his test subjects fell to the wayside at John's outburst.

And, in all honesty, he really hated when people stared at him like that; when he said "people," he meant the Holmes brothers. That slightly affronted, slightly humored, and completely curious stare. As though he were a small child, presenting their father with a rather abstract clay sculpture on Christmas Eve. He didn't want to think of a precise word, but "quaint," and "novelty," ran through his mind.

Whoa, where did that come from?

He coughed awkwardly into his fist, breaking eye contact that had persisted for far too long. "Sorry, don't know what that was."

"John," Sherlock tutted, "You cant _really_ believe that people honestly think you're my pet." He chuckled, softly, turning back to his slide. "Don't be ridiculous."

"But," the doctor sighed, losing his fire as quickly as it had come, "never mind. I don't even want to talk about it, let alone talk about it with you."

If he had hurt the man's feelings, he wouldn't know. Honestly, he didn't quite care at the moment. It took all of his effort to ignore the gaze from across the room, but he did it anyways.

Why was he bothered by that? Sherlock was right, had to be right—there were jokes, occasionally, about him following Sherlock around like a lost puppy. But Donovan and Anderson were both childish and incompetent, in that order. They're both things together, actually. But, that was beside the point. They don't faze him.

When it had come from Moriarty, though, it had been different. As though, for some reason, he truly believed it to be. He thought that Sherlock kept him around purely for kicks. A trick dog, or something, to run around in circles and do back-flips for treats. And it _grated_ on John's nerves.

He brooded for a few moments longer, waiting with learned patience until he no longer felt prying eyes. Then he exhaled, softly, appearance calmed; though he was sure that his flatmate could already read his agitation through some guru-genius method of measuring the exact pressure he was putting on his lower jaw or something equally brilliant and agitating.

"I don't like that man, Sherlock. Not one bit."

"Me neither," the man murmured. Having realized that John was regaining his composure, he had immersed himself back in to his work. "He's rather annoying, really. And a freak."

John didn't miss the face Sherlock made as he stole a line from Sally Donovan's book. He snorted, he head bobbing in agreement. "He's stark-raving looney, honestly. And terribly unfunny."

He and Sherlock spent the next hour listing the possible reasons as to why the man was anything _but_ terrifying. John was beside himself in horror, of course, but it worked to ebb away at his anger until he was left feeling foolish for thinking anything of it at all.

And he was fine, as good as gold, as fit as a fiddle, et cetera. And a whole work week had gone by without trouble. Actually, it had been one of the quietest weeks he'd been given the pleasure to have in a long while. Peachy.

And then, one day, Sherlock had warned him, albeit in an entirely Shakespearean manner, complete with dramatic gestures and rather exaggerated wording. He didn't go into details about what he was warning him _against, _but it was a warning no less. So he wasn't so surprised when he was kidnapped by whatever her name was and delivered to Mycroft, as though on a silver platter.

The man graced him with an indulgent smile. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," he motioned toward the chair diagonal from him, and John toed his way over, wary.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Please, it's Mycroft. Would you care for some tea?" A woman thrust the proffered liquid toward the doctor, who politely refused with a shake of his head.

"I don't plan to stay long enough for tea," he turned now in his seat, meeting the amused eyes of Mycroft Holmes. He was a smug bastard. "What do I owe the pleasure, Mycroft?"

Mycroft then delved into a rather long-winded and incomprehensible (at least, to John it, was) babble about how Sherlock might—in some way or another—be attempting to create a supervirus in their kitchen. Now John really rolled his eyes. He really should make a sign that states "I have no idea what Sherlock is doing _most of the time_. I'm neither his watchdog, nor his wife."

"Well, this was enlightening," John cut him off and stood, adjusting his coat, "I've honestly no idea why you bother to ask me about what Sherlock does. If you want to know so badly, ask him."

"Ah," he could almost hear the irritation in the man's voice, "of course. Ever loyal," he chuckled, "it's adorable, really. Like a puppy."

There it was, again. That nagging feeling. John rounded on the man, his fists curled and face attempting to hide his sudden rage. He rocked back and forth for a moment, curling and uncurling his fists, rubbing his fingers together, dancing on his toes. Mycroft allowed him the good grace to compose himself.

"No," he seethed, before adjusting his tone, "I just meant that I have no idea _what_ the hell _your_ brother is currently experimenting on. But, please," he threw up his hands in a sort of conceding fashion and began to walk away, "Have a good day, Mycroft."

"Take care, Doctor Watson."

The ride home with whatever her name was silent. Her eyes never left her phone and his eyes never left the window. The normally good-natured doctor was now livid-murderous, really, and he knew it. But, he couldn't shake that damn _dog_ matter. He knew very well what he was doing, thank you, and was definitely not lost and blindly faithful. Half of his time was spent trying to dissuade his supposed "master" from being a complete moron and killing himself.

But, of course, no one cared to see that. He rubbed tiredly at his face as he realized he was now in front of his apartment. He gave "Anthea" (it wasn't his fault she had chosen such an odd pseudonym) a sort-of half-smile and exited the car. Now he wanted nothing more than to just go home, and relax. He hated when his nerves were frazzled.

Sherlock was playing his violin, and John was thankful for it. For being an alleged robot, he was truly gifted in understanding John. Then again, his accusers were all idiotic, driveling and otherwise incapable of any thoughts above wondering what they wanted for dinner.

He even got to relax, too. He was reading a rather interesting article about some sort of exotic disease and the mutations it caused when left untreated. Apparently, if left untreated, your epidermis begins to shed itself not unlike the way a snake's would. It was enthralling, really, in a sort of macabre way.

Then a very incensed Lestrade phoned, demanding to know why Sherlock was refusing to answer any of his calls and why they weren't _already_ at the "god damn, bloody crime scene, damn it!"And then he was torn from his hour—only an hour!-of peace with renewed annoyance. And then a very uncooperative and petulant Sherlock harangued the cab driver, almost getting them thrown out seven times in fifteen minutes—a new record, for the matter.

It was no better when they had arrived at their location, because then Sherlock disappeared with such a speed that John Watson had barely begun to say "I-" before his friend was out of sight. Of course, with the intimidating Sherlock gone from their general view, the cab driver found it crucial to tell John exactly how rude his patron had been.

And then he demanded a tip.

John was in the midst of storming up the stairs when he heard Anderson's sniveling, ratty voice. It was obnoxious, to be honest, and John hadn't realized it until now; but it was the ugliest voice he'd ever heard.

"So, where's your little doggy," he chortled, "Got off his leash, then, eh?"

That was when John rounded the corner, his eyes awash in unconcealed fury. The laughing stopped, and just as John was getting ready to cock his fist back and punch that little turd square in the nose, Sherlock's hand stopped him.

"Don't go getting arrested for doing the world a favor, John," Sherlock sighed, "He is, after all, a police officer."

John dropped his fist, but didn't stop glaring at the man in front of him, who was staring at him with utter confusion and some mild trepidation. Good. Good. That little bugger deserved to be scared. He'd show him a dog off it's leash.

Instead, Sherlock's ever-commanding voice seized the attention of every occupant of the room, even those who had missed the confrontation, which John was sure he had wanted.

His thoughts were confirmed when he turned his gaze to Sally Donovan with a smirk. She began to glare at him, almost violently so, and Sherlock did little more than round on Anderson again. "How was the lilo?"

"Er," Anderson sputtered for a moment, closely resembling a choking mouse, "what, what do you mean?"

"I think you know exactly what I mean," his eyes narrowed in mischievous glee. Sherlock looked like a lion before his feast, "I think we all know _exactly_ what I mean."

"How did you know?" Sally scoffed, still disbelieving of his powers of deduction even after working beside him for so long. Anderson looked ill.

Sherlock, however, dismissed her. "I think the only thing you should be worrying about is how, exactly, you're going to dispose of said lilo."

Sally blinked, and Anderson seemed to have gone white as a sheet. Sherlock then feigned surprise, the mirth in his eyes making John laugh to himself. "'And why would I be wondering that?' Well, if you had used your brain just once in the last couple days, you would have realized that Anderson's wife has kicked him out of the house because he was being unfaithful, again," She looked hurt, for a moment, but Sherlock was on a roll, "And, if you had used your eyes, you would have realized she kicked him out because, and this is important," he glanced at the detective, "she found out that he has a bad case of the crabs."

There was a cacophony of sounds that followed the consulting detective's statement. First came Anderson's indignant yelp. It was a ratty thing, really, high in octave but with obnoxious cracks in the inflection. He sounded almost like a boy in the throes of puberty than a grown man. Secondly, the enraged noise that tore itself from Sally Donovan's mouth was almost a battle-cry. Her eyes were fiery, murderous. Her lips were curled, sneering with little grace and no tact—something you'd expect from someone who would be dating Anderson. There were the gasps of the witnesses, ranging from Lestrade to that random guy that takes pictures of bodies. Neither Sherlock nor John could ever remember that poor bloke's name.

The final noise to join the mess was John Watson's rich, vibrating laughter. It danced, high above all of the other noises, until everyone was staring at him with emotions that ranged from amusement to loathing. He stopped laughing, choosing instead to awkwardly cough into his fist.

Sherlock, having sensed that the argument was now over, was currently meandering toward the crime scene. He perched himself over the corpse, leaning in to stare with purpose into the dead man's glassy eyes. His sharp eyes scanned the man's bloated body, ignoring the smell in favor of science. He poked and prodded, sniffed and saw, and John watched the whole endeavor with a small smile. There was an almost soothing quality to the way the man worked; in a weird sense, it worked to calm his bustling nerves. The man was like liquid, messy but graceful, with long limbs that are awkward in theory, but efficient in practice.

John patiently waited while Sherlock finished up, leaning against the wall as he did so. He realized that his anger had left him feeling more-than-a-little exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to just go home and sleep. Not read, not make tea, just sleep.

He wasn't accustomed to being so vengeful. Indeed, this day had been particularly taxing on his soul. Mrs. Anderson would understand. She would croon and croon until he admitted what was wrong, and her indignant anger toward such childish name-calling would be sweet, sweet justice to his ears.

He was lost in his musings, so lost that he missed Sherlock's beckoning call. "John!"

"Hm?" John wasn't paying attention, even Donovan could deduce that.

"_John._"

John finally looked at him, meeting the man's scrutinizing gaze with no hesitation. "What? Sorry, got a bit distracted," he shared a sheepish grin with Sherlock, before making his way towards the victim. While he listed the things he found on the body, he could almost _hear_ the glare on his back. And, John was pretty sure that people weren't supposed to hear glares.

"Good, John, very good," Sherlock hummed in approval, before going into explicit detail himself. He listed all of the things John missed, before deducing that it was greed that killed the man. Obviously, according to Sherlock, this man was in the middle of some huge crime syndicate, judging by the manner in which he was killed. His finger tips were burnt off so no one could identify the body, possibly because finding out who he was would bring down the ring. His teeth were also smashed in, so as to keep from dental records. The man's nose gave it all away, though.

"Again," Sherlock scoffed, "very simple, and very _boring_. Let me know when you find something that is worth-while, Lestrade. Come, John!" By flipping his collar, he seemed to part the crowd of people that were hovering over the body.

John scoffed, a bit peeved at being summoned like that, but followed behind the man regardless. As he neared the entrance, he heard Anderson's voice again.

"Run along, little doggy."

John saw red. That was it. He growled, a sound so animalistic in its nature. His fist was then cocked and loaded and it emptied itself in the space between Anderson's brows. With a sickening crunch, the man's nose was destroyed, and he fell to the floor with a yelp. As he sat, writhing, John calmly lowered his fist and began to slowly edge out of the door. John could see the bruises already forming under the man's eyes, but before the Detective Inspector could haul John off for questioning, a strong pair of arms were suddenly dragging him out of the door, down the stairs, and into a waiting cab.

He spared Sherlock a sideways glance, thankful that the man had gotten him out of there before things got worse. He hated being caged up, questioned, and treated as though he were something other than John Hamish Watson. Maybe he was more like a dog than he thought.

Even a tame dog can bite, and that's for damn sure.

* * *

_THIS SUCKS. But, it's the first story I've completed in well over a year and if I don't post it, I won't post anything. There's probably all sorts of tense errors and there's definitely a lack of maintenance and plot, but oh well. If anyone wants to be my beta... ***suggestive wink***_

_I just wanted John to punch Anderson. Again, apologies on the shittiness and general lack of plot. I used this piece as an exercise. I'm writing again, and I needed to get back into the flow of things. I hope it wasn't too bad! _

_Leave a review! Tell me I suck! Or tell me I don't suck! Tell me about your grandmother's cat, or any idea that you've wanted to do but can't find a way to do it. Hell, maybe i'll write it! I'm unemployed atm, so I have more than enough free time on my hands~_

_Ciao for now._


End file.
